


The City of Dreams

by bittergreens



Series: The City of Dreams [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Also kind of bottomlock?, Anal Sex, Case Fic, Champagne, Champagne Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Except there kind of is some plot, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand & Finger Kink, Hotel Sex, I don't know, I love them both equally so they tend to both come out, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Sherlock, Post-Case Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Sherlock Drinks Champagne Like a Boss, Sherlock has huge hands, Smut, Top Sherlock, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Well it is now, is that a thing?, ish, opera - Freeform, toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittergreens/pseuds/bittergreens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-case sex is the best kind of sex. Just ask Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>In which John and Sherlock go to the opera, apprehend a criminal, and then return to their hotel room to have jubilant, endorphin-fueled, post-case sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The City of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> It feels like I’ve been putting John and Sherlock through a lot lately. So I decided to give them a break, and let them have some good old-fashioned, post-case, luxurious hotel room suite sex. Hope you enjoy it as much as they did. ☺ 
> 
> This story is un-beta-ed so apologies if there are any glaring mistakes!

_Ah, Vienna, City of Dreams!_  
 _There’s no place like Vienna!_  
Madman in Robert Musil’s _The Man Without Qualities_ , Vol. III, Ch. 33

 

“Can you smell it, John?”

John breathed deeply in the wintry air, smelled the nearby sausage vender’s wares, and felt his stomach grumble in anticipation. “Yeah, smells delicious but I was thinking about some actual din—”

Sherlock slung an arm around John’s shoulders and spun him in a semi-circle. “Vienna! City of contradictions! Both the birthplace of bourgeois sensibility and the site of its destruction! The marriage of tradition and anarchy! A city obsessed with the preservation of the past, yet dedicated to the complete obliteration of the present moment. Home to some of the greatest minds of the twentieth-century: Wittgenstein, Schiele, Schoenberg, Klimt, Freud—but also a homing beacon for fascists.” Sherlock spread his gloved hand in a sweeping line along the horizon. “Hidden beneath its opulent exterior lurks an entire seething underworld of criminal activity and corruption! I can’t wait to sink my teeth into its decadent frosted façade and taste the dark center within!”

John made a face. “Sounds… delightful. But seriously, Sherlock, let’s get some dinner before we—”

But Sherlock had already taken off down the brightly lit sidewalk, his coat fanning out behind him in a palpable demonstration of his irrepressibly buoyant mood. “Come on, John!”

John sighed before setting off after Sherlock, but he couldn’t keep a smile off his face at Sherlock’s giddiness at the promise of a new city, as well as a new case.

They were in Vienna, believe it or not, on instructions from Mycroft, with the intent of catching a corrupt Swiss banker, who as well as embezzling hundreds of thousands of Euros himself, was involved in a criminal network responsible for protecting other billionaires from their monetary crimes. Mycroft’s people had been tracking his movements for months and when they’d ascertained that he would be in Vienna for a week in early December, Mycroft had approached Sherlock with the prospect of making the arrest.

The case had involved exactly the kind of “legwork” that Mycroft found so beneath him, and Sherlock had accepted the case almost immediately, eager for the chance to get out of London. There had been a bit of a lull in the activity of the London criminal classes and John was as eager as Sherlock to get out of Baker Street for a few weeks, and travel to someplace completely different.

It didn’t hurt matters that the trip was all being paid for on Mycroft’s dime. He’d put them up in one of the most luxurious hotels in Vienna, in a penthouse room with a view of the city—well, actually the penthouse room had been Sherlock’s doing. He’d upgraded their room as soon as they’d arrived at the hotel with a charming wink to the smiling woman behind the desk.

John had regarded Sherlock with thinly veiled amusement. “Penthouse suite, eh?”

Sherlock smiled innocently back at John. “I merely asked them to put us in the room that Mycroft usually occupies during his stay.”

To say that the room was luxurious would be an understatement.

John had never seen a room as elegant as the one Sherlock had requested, much less _stayed_ in one.

The room was enormous; all understated elegance with sleek but comfortable furnishings. The bed was a behemoth of fluffy white pillows and eiderdowns, the bathroom as large as John’s room back at Baker Street. But perhaps the most impressive aspect was that the entirety of the western wall was made of glass with a view looking out over the city. At night the lights of the city were spread out beneath them in a vast, twinkling sea.

John Watson was not a pampered man. He’d slept on narrow cots, creaky camp beds, and stretches of open desert. The prospect of luxury tended to make him uncomfortable. But even he had to admit there was something nice about sleeping under a pile of down comforters. 

The first night he’d climbed into the vast, luxurious bed, outfitted with the softest sheets he’d ever touched, he’d felt a bit like he was climbing into the center of a marshmallow. But when he put his head on one of the pillows his body seemed to melt down into oblivion. It was like sinking into a cloud.

The one drawback of a week in the lap of luxury with Sherlock on a case was that because Sherlock was on a case that meant absolutely no sex.

Of course, John had expected this. Sherlock almost never had sex in the middle of a case and this was no exception. 

Still, it was hard not to be disappointed.

It seemed a shame that such opulent surroundings should go to waste. Especially that bed. Sherlock hardly slept in it most nights and John was usually so exhausted by the time he crawled into it that he was asleep before his head touched the pillow. But there were _much_ better uses for a bed that size than sleeping. 

Not to mention the bathtub, which could more accurately be described as a small pool. John had made designs on that bathtub as soon as he’d seen it.

However, that had been almost a week ago, and they’d hardly spent any time in their luxurious room at all. They’d spent most of the week tailing the Swiss banker they were working to apprehend, which involved long hours of following expensive black bank cars, crawling through back alleys, and hiding behind sausage venders on frozen street corners, waiting for their target to appear. 

John wasn’t one for museums or historic sites but still, just once, he reflected, it would have been nice to duck into one of the gilded, lit-up windows of the nearby pastry shops and sit with Sherlock over steaming cups of rich, dark coffee, trading bites of flaky Viennese pastries, watching the storm-dark sky beyond the windows.

It was cold in Vienna at this time of year and standing huddled beside Sherlock on a wind-swept corner, the golden street lamps lit up against a dense grey sky that threatened snow, hands shoved deep in his pockets, John spent a lot of time fantasizing about what it might be like to go on a normal holiday with Sherlock. 

Of course, it would never happen, not in a million years, and John figured he’d get just as bored as Sherlock after the first few days, but it would be nice to linger over a good dinner, to walk at a leisurely pace through some of the more picturesque parts of the city, to just wander with no purpose, as opposed to ducking down alleyways, picking their way over rubbish bins, and trailing tedious black bank cars all over town. 

Needless to say, it hadn’t been as much of a vacation as John had hoped. 

Meanwhile, if John was having a less-than-ideal time, Sherlock was utterly oblivious. For Sherlock, it was thrilling, exactly the kind of cat and mouse game he thrived on. All of his attention was directed on the project-at-hand. It was a difficult case to crack, and full of the sort of intensive minutia that demanded all of his attention. 

He was absolutely focused on the case; alternating between fits of agitated excitement and long, tense periods of uninterrupted silence. He’d turned half of their hotel suite into a warren of papers and pinned-up maps, and when they weren’t out in the cold trailing their suspect, they were inside while Sherlock sifted through the piles, poring over maps and documents, muttering to himself, occasionally yelling John’s name in surprised delight if he stumbled upon something that would prove useful. 

He smoked endless cigarettes, pacing the balcony of their suite long into the night, sometimes coming to a halt and standing motionless for minutes on end, the white plume of his breath the only sign of life as he contemplated the dark glittering city beneath him. When John awoke in the mornings to find the overflowing ashtrays he began to wonder if allowing Sherlock this one luxury to try and ease his nerves wasn’t such a good idea after all.

But now, they’d finally, _finally_ had success. 

Sherlock had acquired the last piece of evidence they needed to make LaRoue’s arrest. Their target would be attending a production of Giuseppe Verdi’s _Rigoletto_ at the Vienna State Opera that evening and John and Sherlock would be in attendance as well. At the close of the curtain they would make their arrest.

Sherlock had insisted that they dress appropriately for the production, which meant white tie, which meant John Watson feeling completely out of sorts in starched white linen and dark tails. 

When John emerged from the bathroom, dressed in what was certainly the most formal attire he’d ever worn, Sherlock looked up from the text he’d been composing and froze when his eyes fell on John.

John saw something in Sherlock’s gaze shift imperceptibly as his eyes traveled the length of John’s body. He recognized that look and felt a spark of corresponding desire flicker to life low in his belly.

John suddenly felt much more confident about his appearance.

Sherlock’s eyes were still fixed on him with absolute focus, the phone in his hand momentarily forgotten.

“You look… good.”

John tugged on his waistcoat, felt his cheeks heat slightly at the unwavering force of Sherlock’s gaze. 

“Cheers.”

“There’s just one thing.”

Sherlock slipped off the arm of the sofa where he’d been perched and began to glide toward John without taking his eyes off him.

“What’s that?”

Sherlock was going to have to quit looking at him like that if he wanted them to get to the bloody opera on time.

“Your hair.”

Sherlock pulled John back into the bathroom and after a moment of rummaging through his extensive case of hair products, selected a small silvery container and with an elegant twist of his fingers, unscrewed the top.

The smell of the expensive fragrance filled the room.

Sherlock pushed John gently until his back was against the bathroom counter and he was positioned directly in front of Sherlock. Then, dipping his fingers into the container, he began combing the hair back from John’s forehead with expert fingers.

John shut his eyes briefly to enjoy the sensation, slightly embarrassed at how much it was affecting him, at the same time he realized that this was the most physical contact he’d had with Sherlock in the past five days.

Sherlock worked for several minutes in silence and then John heard him humming in approval. He pivoted John so that he was facing the mirror.

“There.”

John studied his reflection.

He had to give it to him, for all the fuss that Sherlock caused over his own appearance he certainly knew what he was doing.

Sherlock had parted his hair on the side and smoothed it back from his forehead, using the fragrant product to hold it in place. The look perfectly complemented the formality of the crisp lines of his suit and starched collar. He looked elegant, sophisticated, and… sexy.

He saw Sherlock’s eyes on him in the mirror as he studied himself and felt the pool of warmth in his belly grow hotter.

He licked his own lips, saw Sherlock’s eyes follow the movement, and he knew he shouldn’t, he knew he should wait until they’d finished the case—they were _so close_. If all went according to plan LaRoue would be in custody before the end of the night, but it had been such a long week and Sherlock was standing just behind him looking like the god of sex, the dark lines of his own perfectly tailored suit accentuating his lean frame, the gleam in his eyes hunger-bright. If John just turned himself around they would be standing hip to hip…

John dropped his eyes from Sherlock’s in the mirror and started to turn, but before he’d completed the movement, Sherlock had stepped away from him. 

“Come on, John!” he called as he vanished into the other room. “We don’t want to be late.”

John let his hands fall to the bathroom counter, leaning into his palms with an exasperated sigh.

It was going to be a long night.

***

John had never been to the opera in his life and he’d fully expected to find the experience not only ridiculous but also dull. 

To his great surprise, he found it was neither of those things.

Perhaps it was just his relief that they were so near to the end of what had been a rather long and tedious case, or maybe it was Sherlock’s own infectious excitement at the prospect of finally apprehending their target. This, after all, was the best part, and John loved it just as much as Sherlock.

Sherlock was like a bloodhound closing in on its quarry—lean, alert, every muscle in his body poised for attack, but perfectly controlled until the necessary moment, hiding his intentions behind the most impassive mask. 

As they stood in the glittering lobby, waiting for the doors to open, Sherlock was the very picture of casual elegance. His ability to blend seamlessly in with his surroundings was more evident here than ever—the slightly bored expression on his face gave no hint of the intense concentration with which he was scrutinizing the expanse of the room. Only John recognized it because he knew Sherlock so well, knew that the muted glimmer in Sherlock’s eyes signaled a deadly threat.

There was also something about the theatrical nature of their surroundings that felt very appropriate to the close of this particular case. The sheer opulence of the opera house, so crowded with gold filigrees, marble statues and chandeliers it felt like it might choke on its own Baroque extravagance, was perfectly suited to the nature of LaRoue’s crimes—a man who had not only embezzled vast sums of money himself, but who was responsible for setting up an international network to help wealthy clients hide billions of dollars in assets from tax authorities.

“When the building first went up people thought it was hideous.” Sherlock said, leaning over conversationally as though he could read John’s thoughts. The low gust of his breath was warm against John’s ear. “One critic said it was like an elephant stuck in the intestines. Even the Emperor hated it. The architect was so wounded by the criticism he hanged himself.” Sherlock straightened up as the attendants began pushing open the heavy doors to the theater. “Ah good, we’re going in.”

Sitting in his plush red velvet seat in the vast circular room, watching an English translation of the libretto scroll across the screen on the back of the seat in front of him, it struck John how fitting the content of the opera was itself, with its themes of corruption and deceit.

However, he didn’t have much attention to spare for the production, he was too busy watching Sherlock whose gaze was trained on the man in the box across the way, his gloved fingers curled around the pair of opera glasses he occasionally lifted to his eyes, the muscles shifting in the long white column of his throat as he turned to watch the figures on the stage.

In the low lights of the theater, Sherlock’s face was half bathed in shadow, the normally sharp edges of his cheek and jaw-line softened by the gentle golden light, the glow drawing out the shine in his dark hair.

John couldn’t take his eyes off him. He’d seen Sherlock dressed up before but this particular brand of elegance suited him so perfectly that John found his thoughts completely overrun with fantasies of stripping Sherlock of his elegant attire one piece at a time.

His gaze kept returning to Sherlock’s hands.

There was something especially erotic about seeing Sherlock’s elegant fingers covered by white gloves. John had always liked Sherlock’s hands but seeing those long dexterous fingers wrapped around the delicate pair of opera glasses made the immense size of his hands all the more apparent.

Maybe it was just because the longer John looked at Sherlock’s fingers the more he remembered all the things those fingers could do so dexterously— _had done_ so dexterously to his own body.

John shifted in his seat, suddenly all too aware of the memory of just how those fingers felt when they were curled inside him.

Sherlock leaned over and put his mouth to John’s ear. “Stop fidgeting.”

John opened his mouth to protest but Sherlock had already leaned back into his own seat.

Reluctantly, John forced his thoughts back to the situation at hand. 

And then, halfway through the last act, they watched their target get up out of his seat. Sherlock excused himself and made his way to the aisle, John following in his wake like a silent shadow, his eyes following the narrow line of Sherlock’s shoulders and thinking about how much he wanted to pull the well-cut jacket off of him and run his hands over the muscles he knew were underneath.

_Come on, Watson. Get it together._

He felt slightly concerned about his inability to concentrate; then again it had been a _very_ long week.

He followed Sherlock down the vast marble staircase, past the walls of mirrors throwing his own strangely elegant reflection back at him, one hand trailing the banister, down, down through the glittering lights to the enormous marble bathroom on the ground floor, all gilded mirrors and palms in gold pots. 

Sherlock waited by the sinks for LaRoue to re-emerge from one of the stalls, while John hung back by the door to make sure no one else entered, studying Sherlock’s reflection in the mirror as he waited, the blade-like edge of his cheekbones.

The banker ignored Sherlock as he washed his hands. When he had finished Sherlock was beside him, handing him a towel with a gracious smile.

Sherlock spoke to him in his native French, rather than German. “Profitez-vous de la performance, Monsieur?”

The banker took the towel but he ignored Sherlock’s question and started to step past him.

Sherlock blocked his path, his voice dropping to a lower register as he switched languages abruptly, all good humor gone from his face. “ _Di punirti già l’ora s’affretta._ ”

The man eyed Sherlock angrily. “Qu’est-ce que vous avez dit?”

Sherlock stepped closer, his voice dropping several octaves more as he quoted another line from the opera, his face now lit up in a menacing smile. “ _Zitti, zitti, moviamo a vendetta._ ”

As Sherlock spoke, he kept his eyes locked on the other man’s gaze. “ _È buia la notte, ecc._ ” 

With a subtle twist of his hand, he snapped a pair of handcuffs onto LaRoue’s wrists.

“Mais—!”

“You are under arrest, Monsieur LaRoue, for crimes the nature of which I am sure you are all too familiar.” 

“What is the meaning of this? Who the hell are you? How _dare_ you threaten me?”

“I won’t waste my time telling you about things of which you are already well aware. If you’d be so kind as to accompany us, I’m sure all will be made clear very shortly.”

A dull sheen of fury had illuminated the man’s previously pale face. “I don’t know who you think you are but if you think I’m going to believe that you have any kind of authority—”

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. “Please. Spare me the histrionic display of your own importance. There are better uses for all of our time, I’m sure.”

The man was shaking his head, his face gradually turning a bright shade of puce. “You’re going to be sorry you ever threatened me.”

“I highly doubt it.”

Sherlock took hold of LaRoue by the arm and moved to pull him through the door.

“Don’t touch me!” The man snarled, yanking his hand forcibly out of Sherlock’s grasp.

“Now, now, you don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of all your rich important friends, do you? I suggest you try not to make a fuss. The door, please, John.”

John pulled the door of the luxurious bathroom wide, but as he did, there was a scuffle of movement and a shout. John looked up just in time to see Sherlock fall back against the wall, blood running out of his mouth.

LaRoue raced past John, but John lunged at him, his hands fisting in the material of the man’s jacket.

LaRoue kicked out ineffectually but then with a violent, twisting motion, tore forward with such force that he ripped the jacket from his shoulders and sent off at a sprint down the lobby.

John looked over at Sherlock where he was still half-leaning against the wall from where he’d been pushed, LaRoue’s torn jacket dangling from his hands. For one brief moment, their eyes connected.

“That spry old bastard!” 

John felt his face split into a grin.

Sherlock heaved himself off the wall and then looked at John expectantly. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

John set out across the lobby, running at full tilt, almost skidding on the polished floor as he turned the corner toward the front entryway. He could hear the sound of Sherlock’s pounding footsteps behind him and the distant shout of an enraged usher as he tore down the palatial front steps of the opera house and out into the snowy night.

***

“Hold the elevator!”

There was no reason to run. 

But when Sherlock broke into a sprint at his side, John didn’t hesitate to take off after Sherlock across the elegant hotel lobby, nearly colliding with an enormous vase of fragrant smelling flowers as he raced to catch up.

They tumbled through the elevator doors, breathless, giddy, grinning like idiots, much to the bewilderment of the elderly couple, standing sedately toward the back, dressed in evening clothes just like John and Sherlock but without the splatters of dirty snow and damp that speckled the front of John’s waistcoat and trousers.

“Which floor?” The elderly man asked politely, his gloved finger poised above the buttons.

“Top floor,” Sherlock replied breathlessly, and reached up to wipe away the blood at the corner of his mouth.

“Lovely evening!” John proclaimed, unable to help himself. “Did you come from the opera as well? What a production!”

John saw the shocked expression on the elderly woman’s face and for a moment wondered why she seemed too frightened to reply, then remembered he was sporting a particularly colorful bruise on his face. He quickly dropped his gaze to keep from locking eyes with Sherlock and dissolving into what he knew would be highly inappropriate giggles.

Instead, he stood resolutely at Sherlock’s side, lifting his eyes to the small gold numbers ticking by as the elevator climbed higher and higher into the Viennese night sky.

He took a deep breath, and concentrated on releasing the tension from his body, still thrumming with adrenaline from the night’s dramatic chase through the snowy streets of the city, buzzing with the high that came from a successfully completed case.

John could feel a similar barely restrained energy sparking off of Sherlock. He was lit up like a Christmas tree, practically vibrating with the excitement of the case and the satisfaction of the arrest of the man they had spent the better part of a week tailing. 

LaRoue, it turns out, _was_ a spry old bastard. He’d given them quite a pursuit, through the gardens at the end of the street, past the impressive lit-up façade of the Neue Burg Museum, past the equally impressive Hofburg Palace and St. Peter’s Church, and was almost to the river by the time they caught up with him, and after a brief scuffle, had him secured once more.

Thankfully, Sherlock had _for once_ been amenable to getting in touch with the local authorities, who he had contacted earlier that evening in anticipation of LaRoue’s arrest. The police were on standby so it was only a matter of minutes before they arrived to take LaRoue into custody. 

Sherlock had sent Mycroft a brief message alerting him of their success and then they’d slipped away just as the news crews started to arrive.

In spite of their frenzied pursuit, of course, Sherlock still looked impeccable. Other than a single lock of dark hair that had escaped and was now lying across his forehead, the only sign of his recent struggle was the blood that he’d just wiped from the corner of his mouth.

The smell of Sherlock beside him—some new brand of expensive aftershave that Sherlock had no doubt purchased exclusively for this trip, muted, sultry, mixed with the smell of the cold and the heat of his body from the chase, was more apparent now than ever in the confined space of the elevator, and the bouquet of scents seemed to tug actively at John’s self-restraint. 

John stared up at the little gold numbers again, willing them to go faster, just as Sherlock leaned in against him and lifted his hand to the back of John’s neck. He brushed his fingers ever so lightly against the strip of bare skin above the collar of John’s starched shirt, his touch delicate but proprietary, sending off a firestorm of sensation down the length of John’s spine.

Sherlock let his hand rest there; fingers exploring the skin under John’s hairline, and John had to clench his fists at his sides to keep from making what was likely to be a deeply inappropriate noise. 

John heard the couple behind them shifting uncomfortably and he could feel the weight of their disapproving stares. 

When the doors opened, the man ushered his wife out of the elevator with undisguised haste.

Sherlock chuckled softly as the doors slid shut. 

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” John said, and his voice was only a little bit breathless. Sherlock still hadn’t lifted his hand from the back of John’s neck. 

John felt Sherlock’s thumb trace the tendon in the side of his throat, and resisted the urge to turn into the embrace.

“That woman was rude to you.” Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble of disapproval. “She never answered your question. Besides, their bourgeois sensibilities needed a bit of a wake-up call. They’re just lucky the elevator ride wasn’t longer.”

The elevator dinged again and the doors parted to reveal the burnished tones of the long, elegantly lit hallway that led to their penthouse suite.

John shivered as Sherlock let his hand drop, and followed him out of the elevator.

He stood perhaps too close behind Sherlock as he rooted in his pocket for the hotel key, breathing in the scent of Sherlock up close, wanting to press his lips to the dark fragrance of Sherlock’s hair, still glossy from whatever expensive product he’d used to hold it in place. 

The room was dark when Sherlock pushed the door open, the lights of the city stretched beyond the window interrupting the darkness like tiny pinpricks in an expanse of velvet.

“Looks like Mycroft left us a little thank you present. How unusually thoughtful.”

Sherlock descended into the darkness without turning on the lights, crossing through the bedroom, and vanishing into the bathroom without another word.

Curious, John switched on the light in the entryway, and in the glow of the lamp saw that a bucket of ice and a bottle of champagne had been delivered while they were away.

John glanced at the label—a _nice_ bottle of champagne. He didn’t know much about champagne, but he knew a good bottle when he saw one.

John hung up his mud-splattered coat and scarf then wasted no time pulling the cork out of the bottle and pouring himself a glass. He had a feeling Sherlock wouldn’t want any but he poured Sherlock a glass anyway.

John didn’t bother to turn on the lights in their suite. He slouched gratefully into one of the high-backed armchairs set up before the window and gazed out at the glittering expanse of the city stretched out beneath him.

He took a sip of his champagne. God, he’d forgotten what a difference it made, drinking the real stuff.

John kicked off his shoes. 

He shut his eyes and let the weight of the week roll off of him. The last two days had been a whirlwind of racing around after evidence and sleepless nights, punctuated by long periods of waiting outside in the cold for LaRoue to emerge. John couldn’t wait to climb into the mountain of the bed and surrender himself to the bliss of the down comforters. He planned to sleep as late as possible and when he woke up, he was going to order two of everything off the catering menu. His primary goal after eating his own weight in Viennese pastries would be to ensure Sherlock ate something as well. John couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Sherlock consume anything other than cigarettes.

He could hear the water running in the bathroom from across the vast expanse of the palatial bedroom. When he opened his eyes, he could make out just a sliver of golden light from where Sherlock had left the door slightly ajar.

He looked back at the night spread out beneath him, felt the light fizz of the bubbles running through him, buoying him up, filling him with a sparkling, soft, blurry sort of appreciation for the velvet deep of the dark in contrast with the twinkling lights. 

It really was a beautiful city, even if it was home to a vast underbelly of embezzling Swiss bankers.

Reaching for the bottle, John poured himself another glass. 

He heard the sound of the water shutting off, the click of the bathroom light, and then Sherlock was crossing the room toward him, a lean shadow moving silently over the lush carpet, pausing by the table where John had left the full glass of champagne.

Sherlock lifted it to his mouth and took a long drink.

John watched him as he swallowed, his eyes tracing the tendons in Sherlock’s long throat.

God, that throat. He felt his mouth watering with his desire to lick the length of it. 

John lifted his own glass to his mouth and took a long sip.

His desire for Sherlock had only intensified since they’d left the opera house as evidenced by his utter inability to keep his eyes from crawling all over Sherlock, but he was hesitant to initiate anything.

The sexual aspect of their relationship was still relatively new, and although it was clear by now that their desire for one another was both mutual and in abundance, there was still a lot of territory that was unexplored, and many things which they had not discussed. 

Sherlock’s attitude toward sex, it turned out, was much like his attitude toward many of his body’s needs, which meant he was good at ignoring them, even when his body seemed to be communicating otherwise.

That touch in the elevator had felt extremely sexual to John, but Sherlock’s moods were so sudden, so changeable, it was best not to expect that they remain consistent from one moment to the next. 

Sherlock was also not particularly loquacious when it came to the subject of interpersonal relationships and John found that having sex with Sherlock didn’t make him any easier to read. 

Of course, the smart thing to do would just be to simply _ask_. “Hey Sherlock, fancy a shag?” John liked to think of himself as a fairly accomplished sexual partner—he knew that communication was at the basis of any successful interaction, sexual or otherwise, but somehow his communication skills just seemed to fall apart when it came to Sherlock.

Half the time, interacting with Sherlock felt like trying to pet an especially self-possessed cat. If you demonstrated any kind of interest in affection, the cat would promptly abandon you. But if, for instance, you left your hand dangling over the end of the chair and pretended to be completely absorbed in something else, before you knew it a small furry head would be pushing itself into your hand.

To John, initiating sex with Sherlock felt something like that.

John took another sip of his champagne, willing his eyes away from the movement of Sherlock’s throat as he swallowed. 

Besides, it had been a long week and even though John may have been ready to rip Sherlock’s clothes off from the moment they’d left for the opera this evening, John had no idea how Sherlock was feeling. He was probably exhausted. After all, the man hadn’t eaten anything in two days and hadn’t slept in twice that long. He probably just wanted to rest.

John watched Sherlock drain the contents of his glass and then reach for the bottle. He was slightly taken aback by Sherlock’s sudden interest in champagne.

“You hungry?”

Sherlock leaned over John to reach for the pack of cigarettes on the side table. For a brief moment, John was engulfed in the smell of Sherlock up close. It was that same heady mixture of Sherlock’s aftershave, his sweat, and the smell of the cold that had driven John to distraction in the elevator. John shut his eyes.

Sherlock straightened up. He set his glass of champagne on the side table and slid a cigarette from the pack. “No.”

In the brief time that had passed since they’d exited the elevator Sherlock’s mood had shifted again. The raw energy that had been sparking off of him since their chase through the icy streets had dissipated, or if not dissipated, had been pulled inward, out of sight. There was something there that John couldn’t put his finger on, something deep, but impossible to read, as vast and impenetrable as the darkness that lay beyond the window.

In the half-light from the illuminated city below, the angles and curves of Sherlock’s face were thrown into dramatic relief, accentuating the hollows of his cheeks, the dip above his upper lip, the groove at the base of his throat.

John found himself studying Sherlock’s sculptured silhouette, his eyes moving over each place he longed to place his hands, his mouth.

Sherlock had washed the blood from his mouth but John could see where his lip was swollen at the corner. He wanted to kiss it, to soothe the place where the skin was broken with his tongue.

Sherlock had unknotted his tie when he’d gone to wash his face, but the length of silk was still hanging around his neck. He’d pulled loose the top few buttons of his collar, baring more of his long neck to John’s hungry gaze.

He could feel the hot thump of his own pulse in the base of his throat as he studied the shadows playing over Sherlock’s face. 

“I’m going to have a smoke. Care to join me?”

For a moment, John didn’t understand the invitation. Sherlock knew he didn’t smoke. But then he saw Sherlock’s hand on the door out to the balcony and realized Sherlock was inviting John out with him into the cold.

“Yeah, alright.”

He wasn’t sure what made him agree. It was freezing outside and his chair was very comfortable, but just the fact that Sherlock had asked him made him curious.

John swallowed the last of the champagne in his glass before lifting himself up out of his chair and following Sherlock out onto the balcony.

It was bitterly cold. 

Their room was so high up that the force of the wind was noticeably stronger than it was on the ground. There was ice on the railing and little piles of snow here and there where the wind had shifted them. In spite all of that, John felt pleasantly warm, most likely because of the little golden bubble in his chest created by the two very full glasses of champagne he’d drunk in quick succession.

Sherlock shut the door behind them and pulled out a box of matches. He held it out to John. “Would you mind?”

John took the box of matches from Sherlock’s outstretched hand, his fingers brushing Sherlock’s as he did so. The touch was like an electric shock. 

John sucked in a cold breath and looked up to meet Sherlock’s eyes but Sherlock wasn’t looking at him. He had the cigarette in his mouth, his head tucked slightly down against the wind.

John pulled a match out of the box and dragged it down the strip. He stepped in close to Sherlock, cupping his hands around the flame as he did so, and felt the corresponding heat from Sherlock’s torso as he leaned in close.

The wind made the flame shudder between John’s palms. He leaned in closer, blocking the gale with his body, studying the sharp grooves in Sherlock’s cheeks as he inhaled, the intimacy of the gesture making the low burn of desire in John’s abdomen flare back to life. 

The flame caught. Sherlock stepped back to blow out a plume of smoke. “Thank you.”

John slipped the box of matches in his pocket, pulling his arms around himself against the bitter pull of the wind. 

He looked out at the city to distract himself from thoughts of Sherlock’s mouth and the lovely shape it made when he sucked. Out on the balcony, the glow of the city was brighter than ever. John could see the illuminated spires of St. Stephen’s Cathedral dominating the skyline. In the crisp winter air, each twinkling pinprick of light looked like a star, rendering the city beneath them into an inverted night sky. The lights along the river, reflected in the water, doubled the impression. It was beautiful.

“It is, isn’t it?” 

John looked up, startled. Sherlock’s uncanny ability to seemingly read his thoughts never ceased to amaze him.

Sherlock tilted his head, blowing out another long stream of smoke. “Of course, it’s no match for London as far as cities go but all things considered, it’s not a poor substitute.”

John drew his arms tighter around himself, letting his gaze roam over the glittering sea of lights.

“ _Wien_ is supposedly derived from the Celtic word _windo_ , which translates roughly to ‘bright’ or ‘fair.’ Same root as _fionn_ in the Irish, _gwyn_ in Welsh. Seems appropriate.”

The low timber of Sherlock’s voice was difficult to hear over the roar of the wind. John found himself drawing closer in order to hear it, his body also unconsciously seeking the warmth of Sherlock’s. 

“They say this is the city that gave birth to the modern age. So many of the great minds of the twentieth-century were situated here when they generated entire new systems of thought. But arguably it was Freud who left the greatest impression. Freud’s discovery of the unconscious.” Sherlock blew out a long column of smoke. “That’s why they call it the City of Dreams.”

John watched the smoke from Sherlock’s mouth evaporate in the frigid air, found his eyes drawn once again to the exquisite shape of Sherlock’s mouth, the sharp indent of his upper lip.

Sherlock took a final drag on the cigarette, and then stubbed it out against the railing of the balcony.

“Do you know why I’ve smoked so many cigarettes this week?”

John eyes flickered back up to Sherlock’s, startled. The answer was obvious. It was the compromise they’d struck. Sherlock was so irritable last time he was in the middle of a case the concession was that he could smoke, only when a case was on. “Well, yes… because of the case.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No.”

John’s hands were starting to feel the bite of the wind. He tucked them in under his armpits as he waited for Sherlock to explain.

“I needed to focus completely on the case, yes. But in the past I’ve been able to concentrate just fine. What’s the difference, John? What is the only element that’s changed?”

Sherlock swooped in close to John with sudden intensity, his eyes burning into John’s through the darkness. John was having difficulty concentrating. “I don’t…”

“It’s you, John.” 

“Me?”

“I wouldn’t have needed the cigarettes if it weren’t for you. All week. All week I’ve wanted nothing more than to push you down in that ridiculous bed and fuck you until you’re gasping my name, until you’re begging me to let you come.”

John felt his own mouth drop open in shock.

Sherlock continued, the pitch of his voice lowering with every word. “But of course I didn’t have time for that. The cigarettes were an endeavor to ignore all those base desires and focus on the case at hand. To push those instincts out of my mind. It wasn’t easy. But it worked.”

“And now….” Sherlock looked at John through the darkness and John recognized the predatory gleam in his eye from earlier but this time with an altogether different purpose. “The case is over now.”

Sherlock drew a step closer.

“You’re cold.” He closed his hands around John’s upper arms, pulling his hands from where they were tucked into his armpits. Sherlock took John’s hands into his much larger ones, folding his surprisingly warm fingers around John’s. “We should go back inside.”

John licked his lips. His eyes were glued once again to the sensuous shape of Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m fine.”

Sherlock began to rub John’s hands between his own. John felt sparks of feeling from the sensation shoot all the way down to the tips of his toes. 

Sherlock leaned closer, his mouth just centimeters from John’s, until John could feel the heat from Sherlock’s mouth when he spoke. “You’re shivering.”

“No, I’m not. I’m—”

Sherlock didn’t let him finish. 

He closed the distance between them, his mouth pushing warm and slick against John’s, both soft and hungry at once, his fingers tightening on John’s as he leaned down against him.

The delicious heat of Sherlock’s mouth provided a sharp contrast with the freezing air, and John felt his body rise against Sherlock’s, a whole chorus of voices within him screaming out, “FINALLY,” as he opened his mouth wide in invitation.

Sherlock took it, licking his way into John’s mouth with a sound like a growl.

John could taste the bitterness from Sherlock’s cigarette but also the lingering sweetness of the champagne as Sherlock kissed him, his body curling possessively down around John’s as though he wanted to fold John into himself.

It was Sherlock who broke the kiss, and stepped back, wild-eyed, panting—the feral glint in his eyes sharper than ever. “Come on.”

He used his grip on John’s hands to pull him back toward the door, and John was shocked to see Sherlock almost stumble in his haste.

Stepping back into the warmth of the room after the frigid winter air outside was like sinking into a hot bath, and John stood for a moment and shut his eyes in appreciation as Sherlock shut the door behind them.

He heard Sherlock cross to the table where he’d left his glass of champagne, heard the clink of the glass as Sherlock picked it up and then set it down again, and then before John had opened his eyes, Sherlock was crowding in against him, invading John’s space, leaning his forearm against the wall over John’s head, making a cage with his body. 

“God…” Sherlock dragged his nose along John’s hairline, inhaling deeply. “The things I’ve wanted to do you all week.”

John felt Sherlock’s leg insinuate itself between his own and shivered as Sherlock’s thigh brushed the outline of his half-erect cock.

“Do you know?” Sherlock said, dipping his head down to John’s neck. “Do you know what it’s been doing to me all evening seeing you dressed like this?”

John lifted his jaw, sighing as he felt Sherlock’s lip brush the skin on the side of his neck. He could feel the skin tingling under Sherlock’s mouth. He wanted Sherlock to kiss it, but Sherlock kept his mouth there, hovering just out of reach.

“No…” John was curious. Sherlock had seemed so focused on the case. He didn’t think Sherlock had given him a second glance. _He_ on the other hand had had a very difficult time keeping his thoughts on the work at hand.

Sherlock tugged John’s jacket off his shoulders, pushing the material down John’s arms and onto the floor.

“I was so distracted,” Sherlock’s breath was hot against his ear. John felt the edge of Sherlock’s teeth scrape the skin just below it. “I couldn’t _think_ , John. You made me forget what I was doing.”

Sherlock’s free hand slid down the front of John’s shirt, undoing the buttons on his waistcoat as he went. He pressed a kiss to the side of John’s neck as his fingers continued down, his thigh pushing in harder between John’s legs.

John stiffened at the contact and fought the instinct to rub himself against Sherlock’s leg. He had about one scrap of dignity left and he intended to keep it.

“The way you were looking at me all through the performance…” John could hear the rapid sound of Sherlock’s breathing close against his ear. “Like you were trying to undress me with your eyes…” Sherlock shifted his leg as his hand slipped down between them, his fingers skimming the outline of John’s rigid cock where it was pressed against the front of his trousers. “God, I wanted to take you right there. I wanted to pull you into that fucking ridiculous bathroom and fuck you up against those mirrors.”

John let out a moan.

Sherlock began to rub his cock through his trousers, his mouth dropping back to the side of John’s neck and _sucking_ hard.

John made a cut-off sound, and turned his head to the side to give Sherlock’s mouth more room. He was panting now as hard as Sherlock.

“You…you didn’t seem distracted.”

Sherlock was pulling the buttons apart on John’s trousers, long fingers snaking in through the gap. 

John gasped as Sherlock took him in hand.

“I wanted to fuck you right there in that red velvet seat,” Sherlock growled, biting a bruise into John’s neck. “Pull you into my lap and make you ride my cock like I know you wanted to.”

John’s breath was one long hiss. He let his shoulders fall back with a thump against the wall.

“ _Jesus_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s fingers stroked the length of John, slowly, languidly, his thumb rubbing over the tip. He dragged his mouth around to the underside of John’s throat, his tongue tracing the pulse below his jaw. John lifted his chin and shut his eyes, concentrating on the feel of Sherlock’s fingers—those fucking exquisite fingers—wrapped around his cock.

John could feel the presence of Sherlock’s body all around him, his arm still above John’s head in a possessive gesture, his lips on John’s throat. The smell of him—god, just the smell of him all around John would be enough to make him come.

“But now I get to fuck you here… on silk sheets, where you deserve to be fucked. Do you want that, too, John? Do you want to feel me inside you, on top of you, all around you, fucking you into the sheets? Is that you want?”

“ _God_ , yes.”

John extended his throat and Sherlock lifted his arm off the wall to lick his way down between John’s collarbones, the slide of his mouth hot and wet. His hand gave John’s cock another leisurely stroke.

“How long have you been wanting me to fuck you, John? Did you have to get yourself off just to get through the week? How many times did you come, just imagining this?” 

“God, you—you’re all I think about. You’re right,” he panted. “Especially tonight… I couldn’t—I couldn’t stop looking at you. Your hands, your… mouth.”

“What were you thinking about, when you looked at my hands?”

Sherlock’s voice was low, demanding.

“I was remembering the way you… your fingers felt inside of me.”

Sherlock dragged his mouth back up to John’s ear. “Do you want to feel that again, John?”

“Y-yes.”

“Do you want to feel my mouth around you first?”

Sherlock sucked a mark into the opposite side of John’s neck and John made a guttural sound, his hands coming up to grasp Sherlock by the arms. “ _Fuck_ , Sherlock. Yes. God.”

Sherlock used both hands to tug John’s trousers the rest of the way down his legs, dropping to his knees as he did so, and John let his head fall back against the wall with a thud.

He was very grateful for the presence of the wall at his back—otherwise, he wasn’t sure he would have been able to remain standing.

Sherlock very carefully lifted first one leg, then the other free of John’s trousers, tossing them away into the darkness before reaching up to pull down the material of John’s pants.

Sherlock hooked his thumbs into the waistband and John heard his own breathing go ragged with anticipation.

Just the sight of Sherlock, kneeling in front of him in his three-piece suit, his silk bowtie still hanging around his neck, the dark waves of his smoothed back hair catching the light from the window—it was almost too much for John. 

After all the built-up sexual tension of the last week, he was slightly worried about how long he was going to last. 

Sherlock’s face was tilted up toward John, peering at him through the shadows, his face bathed in the light from the window at John’s back. 

John put a hand up to cover his eyes, suddenly overcome.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was gentle. “John, look at me.”

John dropped his hand.

Sherlock reached up and took hold of it. Then he leaned in and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of John’s thigh. 

John shuddered.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered back up to John. “You tell me if it’s too much.”

John nodded.

“Is it too much?”

John shook his head.

“Good,” Sherlock said, and then leaned in and licked the fabric covering the length of John’s cock.

John made a strangled noise, his fingers tightening around Sherlock’s. “ _Jesus_.”

Sherlock fitted his mouth around the place where the head of John’s cock was pressed and sucked.

“Fuck.” John’s hips jerked forward into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock took this opportunity to place his thumbs back under the waistband of John’s now-soaking pants, and tugged them down.

John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s face as his cock sprang free and the look of hunger he saw there made him groan out loud.

“God, I love your cock.”

John felt the reverent whisper of Sherlock’s breath as he leaned in and nuzzled his face into John’s balls, inhaling deeply as he did so. He pulled first one, then the other into his mouth, lapping at them like a cat, the movements of his tongue impossibly delicate.

John clenched the hand that wasn’t clutching Sherlock’s into a fist at his side. He could feel the heat from Sherlock’s breath all along its length; felt his cock twitch in anticipation.

Sherlock made a humming sound and dragged his cheek along the length of it, looking up at John as he did so, his lips slightly parted.

“Were you thinking about this, John, when you watched me smoke all those cigarettes?”

Sherlock’s voice was so low John could feel the vibration of it in his cock.

John nodded, his throat too tight to let him speak.

“Tell me, John, were you imagining my lips wrapped around your cock?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and held it just above the head. He gave the tip an experimental lick.

“ _Jesus_.” John’s whole body convulsed at the touch.

Sherlock made another little humming noise. “I need to hear you say it, John.”

“I n-need you to suck me. Need to feel your… mouth around my cock. God, Sherlock, I—”

And then words were beyond him as Sherlock slid his mouth around the head of John’s cock, swallowing down the first few inches in one seamless slide, his lips stretched wide to accommodate its not un-sizeable girth.

All of John’s breath left him in a huff. His head slammed back against the wall behind him, and he shut his eyes to concentrate on the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue tracing the sensitive underside of his shaft.

He felt Sherlock’s hand let go of his in order to reach around and grip him by the backs of the thighs, long fingers stroking upward to knead the muscled flesh of John’s arse as he began to suck.

“ _Fuck_ , Sherlock. Your fucking mouth—”

John felt Sherlock’s hum of pleasure at the praise as he took John deeper, and John moaned his approval, reaching down and fisting his fingers in the lush dark waves of Sherlock’s hair.

He looked down again and saw Sherlock looking up at him through dark lashes, the bright slit of blue of his irises barely visible below his eyelids, heavy with lust. Judging by the expression of his face, he was just as overcome as John. 

The sight of Sherlock on his knees, his beautiful mouth stretched wide around John’s cock, the dramatic hollows of his cheeks as he sucked, his lips slick with saliva—it was such a filthy picture, so in contrast with the usual immaculate way he presented himself. John felt another wave of lust uncurl within him at the suggestion that Sherlock was getting off on this just as much as him.

Seeing as Sherlock’s mouth was occupied, John figured it was his turn to do the talking.

“God, you love this don’t you?” John’s voice was rougher than he’d anticipated. It sounded dipped in sex. He reached one hand down to stroke the slick contour of Sherlock’s lips where they were stretched around him. He traced his thumb over the place where the skin was cut. It must have hurt. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind. “You love having my cock in your mouth. You fucking live for it. It’s like you were made to suck cock, you’re so good at it.”

John felt Sherlock’s deep groan of pleasure at his words. John could actually see him basking in the compliment; he loved it.

“You’re such a cock slut. I bet your mouth starts watering just thinking about my cock. You probably walk around drooling at the thought of me fucking your beautiful fucking perfect mouth.”

Sherlock whimpered. John saw Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed in response to the shudder of pleasure that went through him. He began to bob his head around John’s cock in a steady rhythm.

John tightened his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and felt Sherlock’s finger clench against his buttocks in response. Sherlock made a whining sound.

“God, you’re so good at this. You fucking love it, you little cock slut. Take me, Sherlock. Take me deeper.”

John stroked his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, and heard Sherlock give another low whine. He’d forgotten—how had he forgotten?—how much Sherlock was obsessed with John touching his hair. John combed his fingers through the dark curls; pulling them out of the neat order Sherlock had tamed them into. 

John could feel Sherlock melting under his hands—his movements around John’s cock began to lose their rhythm; his fingers clutching John’s arse so hard, John was sure they were leaving bruises.

It was too good. John didn’t want it to stop, but he wasn’t going to last much longer and he wasn’t willing to let go of Sherlock’s promise from earlier.

“Sher—Sherlock, wait. Stop.”

John had to pull his fingers out of Sherlock’s hair and grab him by the shoulders.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock released John’s cock with a reluctant pop and sat back on his heels, looking slightly dazed.

John reached down, hooking his hands under Sherlock’s elbows to pull him to his feet.

“That was… fucking incredible but I want….” John tugged Sherlock in against him. He lifted himself up on his toes to reach Sherlock’s mouth. “I want what you promised earlier.” He felt Sherlock’s rapid breath against his open mouth, saw Sherlock’s eyes sharpen immediately. “I want you to fuck me… on that bed.” 

John put his mouth against Sherlock’s and pushed his tongue in to trace the length of Sherlock’s, moaning, as he tasted himself there, along with the champagne and the cigarettes, and the taste that was so distinctly Sherlock. 

He kissed the swollen corner of Sherlock’s lip, heard the catch of his breath as John’s tongue grazed the split skin, and then pulled back, breathless. “I need to feel your fingers inside me. And then I need to feel you inside me. All of you. Please, Sherlock. I need it.”

He saw something shift in Sherlock’s eyes.

And then Sherlock was on him like a hurricane, his hands clutching John’s face, kissing him with such force that John fell back a step in surprise. 

Sherlock’s fingers flew to the buttons on his waistcoat, not so dexterous as they were before, shaking now with the intensity of his desire. He fumbled with the remaining buttons, pulling them apart with a frustrated growl, and then pushing the stiff material off of John’s shoulders.

John reached down with equal fervor and began undoing the buttons at his wrists. He was already half-undressed but it seemed like so much clothing still remained. Never had he been more frustrated by the amount of clothing between him and the sexual act.

John lifted his chin as Sherlock’s fingers settled at his throat, tugging apart the knot in his bow tie and then the buttons underneath. He began walking John backwards in the direction of the bed as he pulled the buttons apart, his mouth descending to John’s neck, sucking another bruise into the sensitive flesh.

John hissed at the contact, his own fingers slipping on the buttons.

“I want everyone to know that you’re _mine_ , John Watson.” Sherlock’s voice was a low snarl against his ear. “Mine and no one else’s.”

John felt the backs of his legs hit the edge of the colossal bed. “God that should be so creepy and not hot at all but somehow…” John yelped as Sherlock bit down on his earlobe. “It really, really is.”

John’s fingers joined Sherlock’s and made short work of the rest of the buttons, and then finally, finally, Sherlock was pushing the shirt off his shoulders and reaching for the hem of his vest, and tugging it over his head.

Sherlock practically ripped the garment off of him and then he was pushing John down against the luxurious bed and crawling up John’s body as John shimmied backwards on his elbows, the slide of the silk sheets shockingly soft against his bare skin.

Thankfully, he hadn’t bothered to make the bed whenever it was the last time that he’d slept in it, so the duvet was all bunched to one side. 

Sherlock kicked at it until it fell the rest of the way off the bed and then he climbed on top of John, and leaned down over him, pinning his wrists to the mattress above his head.

John looked up at Sherlock, his chest heaving, his erection throbbing where it was pinned under the weight of Sherlock’s hips.

Neither of them had bothered to turn on the lights, so the room was still shrouded in darkness, lit only by the incandescent gleam of the city beyond the window. Sherlock’s face was half-bathed in shadow but John could still make out the predatory gleam in his eyes as they swept the length of John’s bare body.

Sherlock was still fully clothed above him and there was something distinctly erotic about the fact that Sherlock was still dressed and he was not—something lewd about all his nakedness laid out for the hungry sweep of Sherlock’s gaze, his dripping cock trapped under the expensive material of Sherlock’s trousers.

Sherlock leaned down over him and John could see just the hint of Sherlock’s throat where his buttons were undone. He wanted to lick the length of it, but he couldn’t do so without dislodging the grip Sherlock had on his wrists and he liked the feeling of being pinned—of Sherlock making a cage over him with his body.

Sherlock ducked his head to kiss John’s mouth, his fingers still tight around John’s wrists. He kissed him slowly, sweetly, licking his way into John’s open mouth, like John’s mouth was some rare delicacy to be savored.

John could feel the warm weight of Sherlock’s very erect cock pressing down against his, could feel the shape of it against Sherlock’s expensive trousers, and he whimpered into Sherlock’s mouth, rolling his hips to cause friction.

Sherlock broke away from John’s mouth with a corresponding moan, pushing his face into John’s neck.

“God, John...” His voice was needy, breathless. He pressed a kiss into the underside of John’s jaw. John tipped his head back, exposing his throat. “I need to fuck you, John. Let me fuck you.”

John felt Sherlock’s teeth graze his neck, felt the material of Sherlock’s trousers bunch against the bare skin of his cock as he rutted against John.

“Yes, _fuck_ … yes! Please…” John’s fingers clutched at Sherlock’s hands where they held his wrists. “I need it. Plus, you… you’re going to ruin your… suit.”

“Sod, my suit,” Sherlock said with a hiss, punctuating his words with another roll of his hips. “All week, John. All… _fucking_ week I’ve thought about doing this to you. And I can’t—” Sherlock licked a trail down John’s throat, pausing to lap at the groove between his collarbones, his voice unsteady. “I heard you, yesterday… in the shower… s-saying my name.”

John groaned at the memory, flexing his fingers in Sherlock’s grip. “Jesus, Sherlock.”

“It was s-so distracting—” Sherlock’s mouth continued down John’s chest, his tongue coming out to circle John’s nipple. John arched up into the touch, his hips bucking beneath Sherlock’s with a frantic curse. “I couldn’t concentrate. I had to get-get myself off before you came back.”

John swore again.

“Ok, I like being pinned by you but right now I need—” John broke off, panting. “I need to touch your cock.”

Sherlock released his grip on John’s hands, and within seconds, John’s fingers were reaching between them and tugging down the zip on Sherlock’s fly.

John was not surprised to learn that Sherlock wasn’t wearing pants. He could feel the damp patch on Sherlock’s trousers where the leaking head of his cock had been pressed. The slick heat of it against his fingers was the most welcome thing John had felt all night. He groaned as his fingers curled around it.

Sherlock was still leaning over him, his weight on his forearms as he held himself above John.

John heard the soft sigh Sherlock made when he touched him and looking up, he saw Sherlock’s eyes were closed, that his mouth had dropped open.

John coated his palm from the moisture at the tip and then stroked the length of it. He watched Sherlock’s mouth fall open wider.

“Hey, don’t stop. You were telling me about yesterday, when you—”

Sherlock reached down all of a sudden, seizing John’s wrist. His eyes snapped open. The look on his face could only be described as one of sheer panic. “John—lube!”

John stared back at Sherlock, startled. “What about it?”

“We need it! We need it, John! Where is it?”

John fell back against the pillows with an arm thrown over his face, trying not to dissolve into hysterical giggles at the sight of Sherlock’s stricken face.

“John!” Sherlock leered down over him, lifting John’s arm off of his face. “Do we have any?”

“Yes, you big idiot, of course, I have some.”

John saw relief wash over Sherlock’s face. He couldn’t stop himself from chuckling.

“Thank god.” Sherlock bent down and kissed John’s laughing mouth. “You brilliant, brilliant man.”

“You may have a rule about no sex during cases, but I follow no such rule.”

Sherlock kissed his way along John’s brow bone until he reached his ear. “So where is it?” he breathed, pushing a hand down between John’s legs. “We need it, John.”

“It’s in my—ah!” John bucked forward into Sherlock’s hand as Sherlock pushed a slick finger into the crease between his buttocks. “In my suitcase,” he panted. “There. By the door.”

Sherlock crawled off of John like a reluctant panther, somehow still sleek and elegant even while conveying his profound disappointment at having to part with John’s naked body for one second.

John hitched himself up onto his elbows. “Oye! Bring me my champagne?”

John could see Sherlock’s slender form bent over his suitcase, which was after all, very close to where they’d left the bottle of champagne. John figured if there was ever a time to get Sherlock to bring him something he wanted, now was the time to take advantage of it.

“Also—” He might as well go all out. “You wearing less clothes would be good.”

He watched, curious, as Sherlock straightened up. Half his body was lost in shadows but John could see him shrug his jacket off his shoulders, saw his fingers drop to the buttons on his waistcoat. 

He couldn’t see the expression on Sherlock’s face but he could feel the weight of his stare across the room as he slowly stripped. 

John felt his cock give an appreciate twitch.

When he’d divested himself of both shirt and trousers and was standing in nothing but the sheen of the lights from the city below, John watched Sherlock cross to the table where they’d left their glasses and pick up the bottle of champagne.

He never took his eyes off Sherlock as he came back across the room, moving through shadows on silent feet, the gleam off his muscles as he crawled back onto the bed like flashes of light on water in the glare of the sun.

He had the lube in one hand, the bottle of champagne in the other, and he paused, kneeling by John’s feet to take a long swig from the bottle, before crawling the rest of the way up John’s body, and kissing him as he pushed the bottle into John’s hand.

For a moment, John was afraid he was going to come right then.

Sherlock’s mouth was slick and cool, the glimmering taste of the champagne still sharp on his tongue. John could feel the lean muscles in Sherlock’s thighs where they were clenched around his legs. The heat of Sherlock’s naked body leaning into him made his hips strain up in an effort to reach Sherlock’s very full and very rigid cock.

Sherlock pulled back slightly, pressing his forehead in against John’s, his lips curling into a smug smile.

“Anything else I can do for you?”

John set the champagne on the bedside table and then reached up to pull Sherlock’s naked body down against him, kissing the sweet, smug smile off of Sherlock’s mouth.

John leaned back against the pillows, tugging Sherlock with him, moaning in appreciation as he felt the slick line of Sherlock’s cock settle in against his own, winding his legs around Sherlock’s back, sucking hard on Sherlock’s tongue as he thrust up against him.

Blindly, John reached down to seize hold of Sherlock’s hand that was gripping the lube. He flicked the cap open in Sherlock’s hand, his mouth slipping messily over Sherlock’s, and squeezed the bottle—felt the slick cold gel come out to coat his fingers. 

He slid his slick fingers over Sherlock’s and then pushed Sherlock’s hand down between their bodies.

“Yeah,” John panted into Sherlock’s mouth. “Yeah, there is actually. I need you to—”

John’s words were interrupted by a gasp as Sherlock pushed a finger in past the tight ring of muscle and let it sink in up to the knuckle.

“What was that, John?”

“I need—” Sherlock’s finger stroked the inside of him. John felt his breath hitch. “I need more. God, Sherlock, you’ve got—you’ve got to hurry. I’m not going to last much longer.”

Sherlock kissed John’s trembling mouth, and then added a second finger.

John groaned, his calves clenching around Sherlock’s back. “More,” he gasped, squeezing his eyes shut.

Sherlock added a third finger and John shuddered against him, biting down hard on his lip at the feel of those long lovely fingers stretching him open. “You’re lucky I spend—a lot of time fucking my own fingers—pretending that they’re yours.”

Even with his eyes closed, John could feel the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze on his face, watching each ripple of pleasure as he worked his fingers in and out of John.

“Jesus, your fucking hands—”

John could feel the heat of Sherlock’s rapid breath against his face, could feel Sherlock’s wrist trembling slightly where it touched his thigh.

When Sherlock curled his fingers and brushed John’s prostate, he almost came. John had to clench his whole body against the sensation, throwing his head back against the pillows. He reached out to still the movement of Sherlock’s hand.

“Now.” His voice sounded raw. Sherlock pulled his fingers out. “Jesus, Sherlock— _fuck_. I need you. Need you now.”

His legs had slid off of Sherlock’s back. He could barely lift himself off the pillows so he was glad when he felt Sherlock hook his hands under his thighs and drag him closer, when he felt the slick head of Sherlock’s cock nudge in against the entrance to his body.

Sherlock pulled John’s legs back around him and John locked them there around Sherlock’s waist. He reached up and closed his arms around Sherlock’s neck, arching his hips, urging Sherlock forward. “Fuck me, Sherlock.” He heard his own voice break, didn’t care how needy he sounded. “Please.”

Sherlock pushed forward with his hips and John’s whole body tensed as Sherlock breached him, and then kept pushing forward in one long slide until he was seated up to the hilt.

“Ahh—”

His fingers clenched on Sherlock’s neck, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

He’d forgotten just how big Sherlock was. It was good. The pain of being stretched took the edge off his impending orgasm.

Sherlock held himself still, his breathing ragged. He peered down at John through the darkness. Even through the shadows John could see the concern that was evident on his face. “Alright?”

John loosened his grip on Sherlock’s neck, and shifted his hips. “Yeah… Yeah, just give me a minute.”

Sherlock dropped a kiss to John’s chest. Then he lifted his head and John saw the gleam of his teeth in the darkness. 

“What?”

Sherlock reached out one long arm and grabbed the neck of the champagne bottle. “Thirsty?”

John gave a yelp of surprised laughter and felt some of the tension go out of his body. “I never knew you had such an affinity for champagne.”

He watched Sherlock take a long drink.

John put his hands up to cover his eyes. “You are not drinking champagne at the same time that your cock is in me.”

Sherlock bent down over John and then very carefully, poured a small amount of the bubbling golden liquid onto John’s chest. John let out a gasp at the sensation.

“I don’t particularly.” Sherlock set the bottle back on the nightstand, then crouched low over John and proceeded to lick the pool of champagne off of John’s pectorals, his tongue following its path down the groove between his muscles. “But seeing as my brother paid for this bottle—and it is a _very_ nice bottle—I intend to put it to good use.”

John let out another weak huff of laughter from between his hands and then gasped as he felt Sherlock’s long, cool fingers wrap around his cock.

“You feel…” Sherlock licked a warm trail back up John’s chest, his lips closing around one of his nipples and sucking gently. John’s hips jerked upward in response. “So... good on my cock.”

John’s hands were still covering his face; he gasped quietly into them as Sherlock’s expert fingers began to stroke.

“Alright,” he panted. He tightened his legs around Sherlock’s waist, urging Sherlock to move. 

Sherlock reached up and pulled John’s hands from off of his face. He kissed the spilt skin on his knuckles where he had fallen on the ice, before kissing each finger. “I want to see you.”

Sherlock ducked his head and kissed him as he pulled his hips back and then pushed forward. His tongue was warm and heavy in John’s mouth, his lips sticky from the champagne.

John broke the kiss with a cry as Sherlock’s hips began to move. The sensation of Sherlock pushing into him—filling him up—made a shudder of pleasure roll through him. He arched up against him, clenching his calves against Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock’s hips stilled, the muscles tensing in his arms. “Is it too much?”

“Jesus, _no_ —don’t stop!”

John reached down and gripped Sherlock by the flanks, pulling him against him. Sherlock gave a low groan, and then began to thrust.

John shut his eyes, his head falling back against the pillows. He kept his hands on Sherlock’s flanks, felt the muscles flexing under his hands as Sherlock thrust, the slick slide of the silk under his body providing a delicious contrast to the weight and the heat above him.

“J-John.” Sherlock gave another low groan, a note of urgency in the sound.

John looked up to see Sherlock looking down at him. His weight was braced on one arm—John could see the slender contour of muscle standing out. His forehead was shining with sweat; a tumble of dark curls falling into his eyes. The expression on his face was one close to pain.

John slid one hand up to the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled Sherlock’s mouth down against his, reaching out with his other hand to grab hold of Sherlock’s fingers. He dragged their hands up above his head, arching his body up into Sherlock’s as Sherlock pushed down into him.

“Oh my god, John.” Sherlock broke the kiss, ducking his head to press his hot forehead in against John’s. “You…” His lips ghosted the curve of John’s cheek, his fingers tightening around John’s. John clenched his legs harder around Sherlock’s back, pressed his open mouth in against Sherlock’s jaw. “…Perfect.”

John made a whimpering sound as Sherlock shifted the angle of his hips. He thrust up against John and John felt the pressure of Sherlock’s cock stroke his prostate.

“ _Fuck_.”

It was all over.

John tipped his head back against the mattress, pulling Sherlock in against him with the grip of his legs, felt his calves slipping with sweat.

“Sher—Sherlock…”

He just needed Sherlock to do that again—whatever he’d just done—but he couldn’t find the words.

Sherlock understood.

Reaching down, he grabbed John by his arse, lifting his hips off the bed as John arched up into him.

It took two quick thrusts and then John was coming—screaming Sherlock’s name as his body pushed up into Sherlock’s, his orgasm tearing through him with the force of a hurricane. 

Distantly, he felt Sherlock’s fingers clenching on his arse, the drag of Sherlock’s lips down his throat, and then warmth filling him as Sherlock came with a shout, his body tensing over John’s as the contractions of his own body pulled the orgasm from Sherlock’s.

They clung to each other, gasping, for what felt like minutes—the aftershocks of John’s orgasm still pulsing through him long after the first wave had died down. His body felt wrung out with pleasure.

Sherlock eased out of him slowly and then settled down against him, his sticky cheek pressed against John’s, the harsh rasp of his breathing the only sound in the otherwise quiet room.

John slung a boneless arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, pressed a kiss to his sweaty temple. He stared up at the reflected glimmer on the ceiling from the city below, feeling dazed.

“Maybe next time...” He swallowed to clear the hoarseness from his voice. “Next time we should just get each other off quickly before we…”

Sherlock grunted an affirmation against his chest.

“I mean that was… incredible, but I don’t know how often I could…” John shook his head, reaching up a hand to smooth Sherlock’s sweaty curls off his forehead. Sherlock made a happy, purring sound and snuggled in closer against him. “I almost blacked out.”

John was quiet for several moments as he studied the lights on the ceiling, his fingers carding softly through Sherlock’s hair. He listened to Sherlock’s breathing grow steady against him.

“You know, it’s funny… we’ve been on cases before and you haven’t been driven to distraction by me. It feels like something about this place… maybe it is this city.”

John turned his head to look at the vast expanse of the window and saw that outside, it had started to snow.

Sherlock was quiet against him.

“Sherlock?”

He glanced down at the man lying curled against his chest and saw that Sherlock was fast asleep.

Chuckling softly, John pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s hair. Then reaching down in the chaos of the rumpled bed, he dragged the sheet up over them.

He settled his arms back around Sherlock and shut his eyes.

“Maybe it is this city,” he murmured, as drowsiness came over him, stretching his mouth wide in a yawn. “The City of Dreams.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love to know what you thought, so please leave a comment if you're so inclined!
> 
> Also, I feel like I should mention that I am _pretty_ certain I'm going to have to write a sequel to this that takes place the morning after, starring the enormous bathtub. But we'll see.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> And come follow me on [ tumblr ](http://holmesianpose.tumblr.com/)!


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